


This Whipping Boy Done Wrong

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-27
Updated: 2006-06-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: A glance into fucked-upness, Winchester-style.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**This Whipping Boy Done Wrong (Dean/Sam, Supernatural) NC-17**

  
 

**Title:** This Whipping Boy Done Wrong (The Unforgiven)  
 **Author:** [ ](http://keepaofthecheez.livejournal.com/profile)[**keepaofthecheez**](http://keepaofthecheez.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:** Sam/Dean, Dean POV  
 **Rating:** NC-17 for language and dark subject matter (um, incest anyone? kthnx.)  
 **Category:** Wincest, slash  
 **Word Count:** 1, 012  
 **Spoilers:** Anytime up to and after 1x10 _Asylum_ , which is where the boys totally started fucking. Well, in my mind.  
 **Disclaimer:** I own nada.  
 **Summary:** A glance into fucked-upness, Winchester-style.  
 **Notes:** There’s a Sam POV tag to this coming, but whether or not it’ll come before I leave for vacation is another story. We’ll see. If not this weekend, shortly thereafter. Also, the two POV’s sort of follow “The Unforgiven” series by _Metallica_. I’ve uploaded each song with each POV, in case you guys wanna rock out with your cocks out while reading, or whatev.  
  
Thanks to my beta [ ](http://rachel-shanz.livejournal.com/profile)[**rachel_shanz**](http://rachel-shanz.livejournal.com/).  
  
  
  
 _  
with time the child draws in  
this whipping boy done wrong  
deprived of all his thoughts  
the young man struggles on and on he's known  
a vow unto his own  
that never from this day  
his will they'll take away…_  
\-- [ The Unforgiven, Metallica](http://www.yousendit.com/transfer.php?action=download&ufid=FCB2BA0557F5336B)  
  
  
  
  
Dean was a bit of a control freak.  
  
First born, he figured it came with the territory. Responsibility was his burden to bear. He carried the weight. Took the fall. Learned from his mistakes, and passed the wisdom along to those he cared about.  
  
Being in control was his foundation, and he’d built it steadily over the years. He could deal with any situation thrown at him, because he never really let it touch him. Much.  
  
Except his family. Sam. The one thing he couldn’t control. He’d never been able to, really. All the mantras and self-preservation flew out the window when he found himself cornered by his younger brother.  
  
They both knew it was wrong.  
  
It didn’t seem to matter whenever Sam’s hands reached for him in the darkness.  
  
When Dean closed his eyes and gave up power for submission.  
  
The first time it happened, they both came in an abrupt and sweaty mess of fumbling hands and limbs. A lot of _ohgodyes_ and _fuckSammyplease_.  
  
And later, recriminations and disgust. Fear.  
  
 _GodohGodwhathavewedone._  
  
It hadn’t stopped it from happening again.  
  
Every near-death experience, every argument…every time either felt more pain than he could handle alone. It was the only way to make it go away. They were the only people who could accept the darkness within each other.  
  
Earlier that night, a child had died.  
  
He’d been too late, and Sam had been holding the sobbing mother in his arms when Dean had finally arrived on the scene. Sam hadn’t blamed him then, but Dean knew when he would.  
  
It started this way.  
  
Dark motel, fan whirring somewhere in the distance.  
  
A subtle dip in the mattress. Arms wrapped around him. Searching lips closed over awakening flesh as Dean gasped and arched his hips. Handfuls of shaggy hair slipped through his fingers.  
  
Sam’s leg pressed between his, roughly, and Dean rolled onto his stomach without hesitation. Face buried in the pillow, he didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know the expression coloring Sam’s features.  
  
Need. Helpless desperation. Escape.  
  
“Christ,” Dean managed, gritting his teeth as Sam jerked his underwear down his hips, the rasp of his breathing hot and heavy in Dean’s ear. “Sam…what…”  
  
“Not. Now.” Sam made a half-agonized sound, pressing up against Dean and rocking his hips. “I just…”  
  
Dean knew. “Yeah, okay, man.”  
  
Like he’d ever deny Sam anything.  
  
Still in that half-way state of sleep and waking, it felt like he was coming out of his skin when Sam’s lips found his neck. When his brother’s tongue flicked at the juncture between his shoulder and collarbone…that _fucking spot_ that made Dean go primed and ready in point two seconds flat.  
  
Which was apparently the exact reaction Sam was looking for, because Dean then found himself pinned against the mattress, Sam’s lanky body covering his own and nowhere to escape.  
  
Cheek pressed against the pillow, Dean panted helplessly as Sam’s hips continued the slow, rough humping; falling just short of what Dean really wanted. He reached back, wanting to force Sam into pleasing them both, feeling the need for control beginning to well back up inside of him.  
  
Teeth sank into his shoulder, a warning.  
  
He hunched his back, twisting against Sam, fingers clawing at the sheets. “Goddamn it,” he growled, mind cloudy with images of what would come. “Sam, let me fucking _touch_ you.”  
  
Sam’s voice sounded bloody and broken. “No.”  
  
Because Sam was a control freak, too. And it had nothing to do with order of birth, or any misguided sense of responsibility.  
  
Sam was just a Winchester.  
  
And there was nothing a Winchester loved more than a fight.  
  
“Fuck me now, you bastard,” Dean hissed, anger and frustration and lust and shame swirling into a jumbled wreckage that he easily labeled _brother._.  
  
Sam’s fingers dug into his hips, thumb sinking into one of several scars Dean had long ago lost count of. His touch turned almost playful, sweeping across the puckered flesh in a light graze that had Dean’s teeth clenching.  
  
“Sam…I’m sorry…” he finally broke on the plea, rearing up in a surprising burst of strength and catching Sam around the neck. Their mouths met in a tangle of lips, teeth, and drawn blood. Sweat stung his eyes.  
  
Sometimes it started out differently, but it always ended this way.  
  
Hands and knees, hips tilted. Driving. Thrusting. Searing pain that gave way to uncomfortable bliss.  
  
 _Ohgodyes._  
  
 _FuckSammyplease._  
  
It was wrong, and they’d both suffer for it later. They always did. But not now.  
  
Control didn’t exist.  
  
Responsibility was forgotten.  
  
He could hear his own voice begging, pleading for more. Feel himself swaying closer to the edge, reaching for the bittersweet completion just beyond…falling too short…  
  
“Dean...” It wasn’t a sweet sigh, a purr of satisfaction, but a brutal cry of near-anguish as Sam splayed a palm at the small of his back. Dean waited for the inevitable conclusion; for the quick gunshot of pleasure that would leave them both wounded in its wake.  
  
Sam’s heart thudded against his back, their flesh slick and sliding together. When his arms came around Dean, Dean followed in blind confusion. Let Sam take responsibility for what was happening. They rolled to their sides, Sam still heavy inside of him. Not stopping.  
  
“Almost,” he bit off, skimming the line of Dean’s hip with calloused fingertips. Repeated the word, punctuating it with every movement he made. Dean’s fingers found the headboard, curling around the wooden posts and reaching down to end the torment himself.  
  
But Sam was already there, knocking Dean’s hand away as his voice went thick and shocky. _“Now.”_  
  
Tug. Thrust. Come.  
  
It was a formula Dean was all too familiar with, and yet he couldn’t have stopped himself from giving into Sam’s demand if his life had been at stake.  
  
“This is wrong,” he murmured into the dark, voice numb. And yet his fingers searched for larger ones, tangled across the pillow.  
  
“Fucked up.” A whisper in his ear, lethargic and warm.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sam.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
And until the next time, that would be enough.

  


End file.
